Forbidden Love (11 page)

It was before the distance grew between me and the father who’d hugged me and held my hand as we hunted for shells. Before my brothers stopped being friends, and turned into guard dogs. From the time I turned about nine, the affection and playfulness stopped. I was then, according to them, turning into a young woman, and young women were expected to dress and act a certain way. With Dalia it was the same, though as a Muslim she had had even stricter rules to live by. Suddenly, we were no longer allowed to run outside the neighbourhood with other children; the friendly streets were no longer our playground. We were no longer allowed to wear whatever we wished.

It became our job at that time to start serving any guests that came over, and to clean and cook with our mothers. Our training and preening to become mothers and housewives ourselves had begun. And as we were taught the domestic skills, we learned, too, the responsibilities and limitations that all women must accept. Our mothers and aunts were teaching us to know the primary boundary of our lives: the house. By the time we were eighteen, the emotional distance between us and the males of our families had grown to an insurmountable gulf

that we didn’t love our brothers and fathers, but we understood their place as our superiors, as untouchable gods who were not supposed to step down and mingle with us, the common folk. Like Sun Kings, they expected our lives and desires to revolve around them, their needs and schedules. I was so young, still years from, adolescence, when reality slapped me in the face: I was put in my place, second to all males, and

expected to grown up and act as an adult overnight. \020Now when we went to Aqaba, we were part of the anonymous huddle of covered women no longer allowed to enjoy the magic of the sea. For even on the beaches Islam shrouded us all. It is mainly men and small children who are allowed to enjoy the beaches and water sports. Women would never dare be seen in a swimsuit. They sit on the shore, fully clothed, and tend to the needs of their men and their children. They are only allowed to enter the water and try to swim if they wear their shar’ia. Sad and ludicrous-but all too familiaris the sight of a woman struggling to stay afloat while her voluminous black dress billows up around her despite her efforts to beat it back into the waves. It is an act of frustrating futility that now seems an apt metaphor for the lives of Jordanian women.

So while our love for the sea never diminished, our interest in Aqaba did. By adolescence, I was still allowed to wear a swimsuit, but was forced to wear baggy shorts to my knees and a big T-shirt. Dalia, on the other hand, had to remain in full shar’ia attire. And in the end, both of us were forced to leave our love of swimming behind. Our families still made their annual visits to these places, and Dalia and I still obediently went, but we did not enjoy the place.

Our families planned to leave for Aqaba in mid-May. The lure of water in a desert nation is powerful, especially in April and May, when the perfect weather improves Jordanians’

mood; it makes them smile and sends them south from Amman in droves to reclaim the areas of the country usually filled with tourists. Joined by Arabs from the entire Middle East Saudi Arabians, Syrians, Lebanese they flock to places like Aqaba the hot springs of Hammamat Ma’in, and the Dead Sea, despite water so salty that it cannot sustain any plant or animal life.

The Dead Sea, the closest of these spots to Amman, is the first to become congested. It’s the lowest point on earth (409 metres below sea level) and is on the border between Jordan and Israel. Locally, it is known as Al Bahr Al Mayit or Buhr Lut (Sea of Lot), so named because the water’s incredibly high salt content (30 per cent) is seven times higher than that of other oceans. It’s high levels of various minerals are supposed to be wonderful for your health, skin, and stress levels.

So Arabs flow down to the banks of the Dead Sea, looking like a tribe of seals, covered from head to toe in Dead Sea mud, enduring it for the cures it promises for a host of illnesses -arthritis, bronchial infections, allergies. Over the years the Jordanian government has tried to transform the area into a resort spa by allowing hotels to be built along its shores. But the small area of shoreline left untouched and available to the public now quickly become overcrowded. After the mud therapy and hours of floating like corks in the buoyant sea, most people head to the fresh waters of Hammamat Ma’in to rinse off caked layers of salt in its thermal springs.

Hammamat Ma’in is the most famous of Jordan’s sixty thermal springs, all of them famous for their curative properties and rumoured to have been visited by Herod the Great and Cleopatra. The crowds wallow in water that stays hot at 113 degrees Fahrenheit (45 Celsius), soaking up more minerals. After spending a few days at the hot springs, the crowds then continue down Desert Highway, or Dead Sea Highway, to

Aqaba, which tourists love for its archaeological sites dating from before Christ. But that is not what draws Arabs; it is the refreshing escape from the hot, rose-coloured desert that fills the landscape south of Amman. At the very southern tip of our land-locked country, Aqaba is Jordan’s only outlet to the Gulf of Aqaba and the seas beyond, its only real seaside resort. For us as children, it was the door to a rare and exotic world.

But this year, nothing could lure us from Amman. We had to try and find a way to avoid going. We realized that it would be both tricky and difficult to persuade our families to let us stay behind, to leave us alone, unguarded, for at least a week. We had to assure them that we were trustworthy enough. Since crimes such as theft are very rare in Amman, our fathers would mostly be concerned about whether we would continue to obey their rules in their absence. We hoped our computer classes would serve as our excuse for staying home.

It was agreed. We had permission to stay behind. But not completely unchaperoned. My father arranged for my aunt and her husband, who lived less than ten minutes away, to keep an eye on us, and amazingly, Dalia’s father, Mahmood, agreed too. This would be the first time that we’d ever been alone together, without our fathers and brothers lurking around every corner. We were a bit nervous, but mostly thrilled. Our fathers agreed that it would be easier for my aunt to check on us if we stayed in one house during the week, which pleased us even more.

If only they’d stay away for two weeks. But at least for a week we’d be roommates and real sisters. That so delighted us that we were almost tempted to call off any dates with Michael and just enjoy the time together. But of course we didn’t. Maneuvering around my aunt would not be a problem since she had responsibilities at home. All we’d have to deal with

were a few long-winded phone calls from her, and maybe though this was highly unlikely, a brief visit. We decided to stay at my house because my neighbours were younger, busier and not as nosy as Dalia’s. Once the arrangements were made our excitement mounted until, at last the glorious day of our families’ departure arrived.

Dalia’s family left first, dropping her off at my house at seven thirty that Friday morning. The were driving straight to Aqaba and planned to spend the entire week there. My family ate breakfast, packed their cars, and finally began their journey to the Dead Sea a few hours later. We said our goodbyes, reassured them that all was under control, and waited until we were sure they’d gone too far to turn back. Then we blasted the radio on and danced around the house in celebration. When we had tired ourselves out dancing, I picked up the phone and called Jehan. For an instant we even thought of inviting her and Michael over, almost forgetting that we still had neighbours and the freedom we felt existed only inside my house. We made plans to meet every day that week. We’d already decided to close the salon, so our time was our own. Jehan managed to get Michael on the phone and I went up to my room to pick out our wardrobe for the week.

An hour later, Dalia rushed into my room and flung herself on top of the piles of clothing on my bed.

“He’s so sweet,” she said.

“Yes, he is. What did you talk about?”

“Oh, everything and nothing. Guess what?” She sat up.

“What?” I shot back, eager to hear what she had to say.

“Tonight he wants to take us to a restaurant that has a live band, dancing, and Greek food.”

“Tonight? I don’t know if it’s such a good idea to meet him at night.

We still have to go in and out of this house. What if someone tells my dad they saw us leaving at night? What if my aunt calls while we’re gone? Why can’t we go this afternoon?”

“Because they only have music and dancing at night. I really want to go.”

“It sounds like fun, but it’s too risky. I think we should stick to afternoons.”

“Oh, come on, we can get away with this, you know we can. They’re all gone. All we have to do is find a way to sneak in and out of the house without the neighbours seeing us. If your aunt calls while we’re out, we’ll say we were sleeping and didn’t hear the phone.”

“I suppose we can do that. But since it’s your idea, smart girl, you figure out a way to sneak in and out. Jehan’s coming, isn’t

she?”

“I don’t think so. We’ll be out late and I don’t think her father will let her stay out that late, even with Michael.”

“Then why am I going? Why don’t the two of you go alone? It would be more romantic. You could put on some rings and my cross, then you’ll look like a married Christian couple.”

“But Norma, I want you to see it too. I want you to come.”

“You can tell me everything when you get back. And it’ll look better to the neighbours if I stay here, making noise and burning lights. You can sneak in and out through the back.”

“He’s going to meet us on the next corner, behind the pizza place. I thought we could just walk over there, it’s not that far.”

“Well, you figured wrong. You’re going to walk over there by yourself. You can bring me some Greek food to make up for leaving me behind. Besides, you and Michael need to spend some time alone.”

After a year of dates it would be her first time alone with him. I

could see she was nervous. But it was settled.

“Now let’s pick out the perfect outfit. You have to look like a married woman, remember.”

“Wait, what time is it? I have to run to the mosque.” I knew this was not piousness but attention to detail-the sheikh might tell her father she wasn’t there.

“I completely forgot. You’d better get going; it’s almost time for services. I wish you could just miss it.”

She jumped up and began getting ready. “I can’t. My dad specifically reminded me to go this morning when he dropped me off. I’m sure he’ll quiz me on it when he gets back.” She buttoned her shar’ia dress over her other clothing and adjusted her head veil. “I can’t believe I almost forgot.”

She kissed me and ran out of the house, leaving me circled by mountains of clothes. I picked out a few outfits for her date tonight, then rummaged through the overfilled shelves and storage compartments in the refrigerator looking for leftovers from yesterday’s mulukiyyeh (a thick spinach stew with chicken pieces served over a bed of rice, and topped with lemon) one of our favourite dishes. The fridge had been well-stocked by my father before he left, so we wouldn’t have to leave the house to go shopping. His attention to detail was as good as ours, and that scared me a little.

When Dalia returned, she burst out laughing when she found me sitting in my father’s recliner in the living room, smoking and drinking coffee. Dalia plopped down on the couch and reached for my coffee and a cigarette her first ever in my living room. How delicious these small, forbidden pleasures were.

“Well, Miss Dalia, I’ve arranged some outfits upstairs for your romantic evening with Michael. But first, you’re to join me for lunch on the terrace. I’ve taken the liberty of preparing rice, and warming up the mulukiyyeh,” I said

in the formal voice of the maitre Js we’d been hearing.

Suddenly Dalia looked deflated. She was apprehensive about meeting Michael alone. “I don’t know how to act, or what to say or do.”

“Oh, come on, Dalia, you know how to act. I think you’re nervous because you really love him, and you know it. It just seems that much

more serious to you because Jehan and I won’t be there.” \020”Maybe that’s part of it,” she said.

“What did you just say? I can’t believe it, you’re actually agreeing with me!”

“I only said maybe, you don’t need to make such a big deal over it. Anyway, I’m starved; let’s go and eat.”

We’d eaten many thousands of leftover lunches together, but this was a wholly new experience. We savoured our freedom as we ate. We felt even more liberated than during our secret afternoons with Michael and Jehan because we weren’t worried about being caught. We took our time, relishing each morsel, treasuring every second, our sense of independence increasing with every bite.

After lunch, we ran upstairs to pick out the perfect outfit for Dalia’s evening. After hours of dressing up, we decided on a long, cotton, summer dress printed with wild flowers and crimson roses that made her look magical. I could never envy her beauty, only admire it, because she made everyone around her feel beautiful. We decided that if she was going to look like a young Christian woman, she had to put on some make-up. But it couldn’t cover her apprehension. Time flew as we chatted about the approaching evening and, before we knew it, it was time for her to go.

We tiptoed out of the back door and through the yard, making sure we weren’t seen, and ran to the meeting point. I

III

waited until Michael arrived, wanting to see his reaction when he saw Dalia. He pulled the car up to the kerb, got out and walked round to the passenger side to let her in. His eyes said it all. He was delighted with how she looked, and so clearly in love. I went home, confident that Dalia was in loving hands.

Dalia sauntered in around eleven thirty, with a look of contentment and joy that I’d never seen before. I immediately decided that she should see Michael alone for the rest of the week.

We spent most of the night talking about her evening, and nibbling the Greek food she’d brought back. For the first time, Dalia told me that she was in love with Michael. She actually used the word. It terrified as well as thrilled me. I’d spent months trying to get her to say it, and thought it would bring me pure joy. But now, the reality, the implications of what it meant, hit home: the vast weight and power of thousands of years of cultural force would be mobilized against it. We’d been okaying girlish games until now, caught up in the intrigue and the test of our ability to outwit our jailers. Tonight, we’d been giggling adolescents playing Cinderella at the ball. I’d played the game, conspired, spurred her on, to make her happy-and to share some of her excitement. I could hardly bear to ask myself: has this all been a terrible mistake? What pain and danger was I helping to bring down on Dalia? And on myself?